The author Myles McCorry (closest to camera here) – writes from the trenches of the An Post Ras 2012
With a broken front mech under his belt, some tears shed and 158kms on the body clock, Cuchulainn CC’s Myles McCrorry arrives legless in Gort; cursing former Rás winner David McCann.
An Post Rás Stage 2: Kilkenny – Gort 158km
It's the look the other riders give you as you stand at the side of the road with a broken bike waiting for your team car; something akin to how someone would look at you at your parents’ funeral. They are sad for you, but underpinning that is the overwhelming sense of relief that it’s your difficulty and not theirs.
Sunshine enveloped our travelling rabble this morning on stage 2 from Kilkenny to Gort. The legs feel constantly like you have just run up two flights of stairs and away for a wee spin of 161km. After a ferocious opening 30km, one of the New Zealand team said to a fellow Kiwi: "Roads are terrible mate aren't they". I'm still laughing because the entire county of Donegal where this young lover of sheep still has to spend two stages was tarmaced in the early 1960s using a mix of boulders, larger stones and black paint. Bless his Mavic Ultimates.
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At 61.3 km, and I know this distance for a reason because the race was still in a flight to establish a break with all the strong teams represented. At this point a noise came from my bike. It might have been a "ping", it might have been a "ding". But the sound was horrific. It was like your own blood splashing on a tiled floor. The front mech had just broken. Terminally.
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A small tear ran down my left cheek.
Time slows as you wait for your team car, especially when it’s car 30 in the cavalcade. Time for a gel and to stand with your two bottles at the side of the road. When the team car pulls up you take a deep breath and shout 'spare bike' waving your arms like you have fallen out of a building.
Getting towed up to the back of the cavalcade isn't really permitted. But like Catholic sex before marriage, it happens a lot. There is an art to sitting four feet from the rear bumper and getting the manager to feather the clutch. No mad braking or accelerating. Just ease off for the climbs and nail the descent. Waiting off the back of the cavalcade is a motor bike commissaire to ensure I regain the peloton with honesty.
My threshold heart rate was 179 when I was a kid, now I time trial at 165. For the next 20 minutes - jumping from car to car back up to the rear of the bunch - every time I dared look at my wrist it was 175+. Eventually I got into the bunch. It was like a hug from your mummy when you wet your pants. Damage had been done. I was ruined. Thankfully 20km later the break got clear and the pack relaxed to 27mph. For the next 50km I played a game of hide and seek with the wind. During those 50km the Czech team, all five of them, rode at the font. They are either stars and can ride into the wind for days, or their director sportive got his experience working in a McDonalds.
With 25km to go the pace lifted over the second last of today’s five categorised climbs. Immediately off the descent of this we started the final climb – crested at 142km with 16km to go to the finish in Gort. Just as the road went up, a large figure dressed in a black cloak carrying a large farm scythe, cut my legs off and I didn't care. My limit was reached, breached and buried.
A group of ten of us lost 11 minutes and a few months of life expectancy. Every time, every single time, I think I'm too old for this lark, David McCann, professional with RTS, passes me flying.
He's a month younger than me. The bastard.
Myles
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